I Hate Stuart Little
by LovelessNobodyXIII
Summary: A fine summer day descends into mayhem, as a certain little white mouse decides the world deserves to burn
1. The Mice in the Walls

THE MICE IN THE WALLS

by Vladicoff

It had been fifteen years since the wedding had been arranged. Marital life wasn't quite bliss, but it was manageable. Even though the wedding had been arranged, and she'd never even met him until the altar, despite it all, she could say that she loved her husband. He provided for the family as best he could, was a shoulder she could cry on, didn't cheat much, and always made sure the neighbours' nosey noses were kept out of their private lives.

Today though, as with not a few occasions in the past, he was taxing her patience a little bit. He was not the most punctual of husbands (routinely showing up late to dinners, visits with relatives, their anniversary), which wasn't a big deal as far as she was concerned - but when it interfered with his duties not just as a husband, but as a father, then it really got on her nerves. Today was one such day.

Their son, recently turned twelve, was up to bat, in the biggest game in his young baseball career. Their daughter, a year or so younger, was cheering from the front row. But what of their proud father, her husband? It was getting late. The stands were full (well, as full as one could expect them to be for a middle school match); the other suburban fathers, clad in white and khaki shorts, were cheering on their kids and tossing forth advice, much to the annoyance of their coach. The mothers were there also, cheering and shouting louder than the men, some of them red in the face. The game was well underway. Where was he?

All of a sudden, she caught out of the corner of her eye the familiar red car. It skidded to a halt in the lot next door - haphazardly wedged across three parking spaces - and out of the door popped her husband. It was Stuart Little.

Stuart Little rushed up the stands to his adoring wife and kissed her cheek.

'Sorry I'm late,' said Stuart Little. 'Things were busy back at the office.' He grinned to himself.

Buoyed by his dad's cheers, the boy batted swimmingly, and over the course of the next half hour his team clinched the game. The two coaches shook hands agreeably and parted ways - one to celebrate at a nearby pizza joint, the other to console itself with ice cream. Stuart Little patted his son affectionately and dropped him off at the pizzeria. The sun was dazzling overhead, not a cloud in sight, and the day's prospects were as bright as the day itself.

Stuart Little got down to business.

First things first. Lunch break at the office was coming to a close; he had to hurry. He sped along the road downtown, and was delighted to find the parking lot near-deserted. Only one car, Lindsay-the-secretary's, was there. Perfect.

He slipped into the office and greeted her. She'd long had a crush on him, and it was time to put that fact to use. With a few whispered words, he had her writing out a note addressed to his wife:

'Don't stay up. He's going to come home tonight'

The finishing touch was provided by a lipstick kiss at the bottom-right.

Stuart Little then took out a tie (a bright-red, silky tie) he had brought with him, and wrapped it around Lindsay's neck, and strangled her to death. Doubling back, he took the note and dropped it off at his mailbox, before speeding off out of the suburbs. He stopped at a hardware store along the way.

His objective was the house of Billy-Thornton Folsom, coach of the baseball team Stuart Little's son had faced against. The coach lived off a bit beyond the suburb, in a large house with his wife and two daughters. Stuart Little parked in the shade of some trees at the edge of the property, and snaked his way through the immaculately cut field of homogenous grass that surrounded the house on all sides. It was starting to get dark; clouds, absent for most of the day, had since rolled in and slowly blanketed the region in a greying dull. He snuck in through one of the house's two chimneys, and set up a little base of operations.

* * *

Folsom sat down to dinner. There was an odd scratching sound somewhere in the house, or so he thought - whenever he tried pointing it out to his family, it would inevitably cease. The scratching died down by the time the dishes were washed, so he shrugged it off. Perhaps his brain was playing tricks on him after having sustained a baseball to the head during the match.

But at night, the noises resumed. They seemed to come now from behind the headboard, right behind him - just noisome enough to wake him up, just quiet enough to keep his wife in slumber. It was driving Folsom crazy. Slowly, imperceptibly, the sounds shifted, from a scratching to to a scurrying. The scurrying would go from up to down, from ceiling to floor, before - after a short pause - repeating this ad nauseam. Mice in the walls, he thought. Mice in the walls, leading downwards. Perhaps the attic was infested? Neither him nor his wife had been there in years; it was very possible that breeding mice had made it their home. But why were they, seemingly one at a time and with a rhythmic regularity, heading towards the ground - towards the cellar? Try as he might to ignore it, his curiosity won out, and he soon had on his slippers and was carefully shuffling out the door.

As he made his way down the flights of steps, the scurrying kept shifting; first this room, then that one, the the hallway: it was as if every wall in the house was no more than a network of mouse tunnels hidden away behind a thin facade of wallpaper. The thought terrified him. How long had his house, the house his family lived and slept in, been infested? Could it be that when his daughters played, mere inches from them lay tunnel after tunnel full of rodents? He hesitated before the basement door, but, with thoughts of his family, steeled himself and entered.

Like the rest of the house, their cellar was vast: while the flight down the stairs was illuminable from the hallway lights above, the rest was shrouded in a cavernous darkness. Folsom reached the bottom and felt for the light-switch, only to find it was missing; someone, or something, had ripped it from the wall. Had his foot not them knocked into a flashlight on the bottom step, he would have turned and fled. Picking up the flashlight in trembling hands, he turned it on.

Nothing seemed amiss (though, with the flashlight's feeble rays, how could one be sure?), and Folsom made his way past old sports equipment and forgotten tools. He was following the scurrying, which had now grown intense and frantic. The mouse-feet were pattering in circles, just beyond his flashlight's reach. Whenever he stepped forward, the circle tightened, the sounds keeping themselves just beyond his sight. Perhaps he could catch them if he ran, but the clutter of strewn objects at his feet precluded anything more than a slow and hesitant tread, and so the mice were always just out of eye's reach. In this manner the sounds congregated closer and closer to one particular corner of the basement.

It was then, as he neared that corner, moments away from tearing off its shrouding darkness, that the door at the top of the stairs gently closed shut.

In a panic, Folsom shone his light around as he reeled and tried to make sense of the situation. For the first time he noticed what was dangling from the walls, just a foot or two above his head. Meat hooks. The scurrying sound came to a halt, the silence coming so suddenly it was as a thunderclap. He edged the next few feet forward and shone the light upon where the last mouse-foot sound came. There, in the corner, standing atop a pile of old newspapers, was Stuart Little.

The screams that ensued were enough to wake the rest of the household. By the time the mother, ushering away her frightened kids, was able to force open the basement door, they had ended, and silence reigned. Picking up a flashlight propped against the bottom step, she ventured in.

The corpses of the Folsom family would not be found for another week.

* * *

By dawn's break, Stuart Little had reached through the suburbs to the inner city. His wife, a few miles away, was still crying. He stashed his car at an abandoned warehouse, and took out his tools.

Two days later, the city mayor received at his office door an oddly wrapped gift. Peeling back the layers of scrap paper, he uncovered a necklace of strung-together human toes, which investigators would later determine belonged to the now-infected feet of the detainees of the town juvenile detention centre. On each toe was carved a letter; a puzzled - and horrified - quarter-hour ensued before the mayoral staff tried arranging them in order of size. The toes spelt out: 'Pellman Heights'. A tenement building, in the poorest ghetto. Police were summoned to the scene.

They found nothing amiss about the site, until it dawned on them that not a sound had greeted their forceful entry into the building. No angry shouts, no frightened screams. Only silence. A few of the officers felt faint and light-headed, and the force retreated. This was repeated several times, until after an hour or so it was possible to venture in without consequence. The tenement residents, all one hundred and eighty-seven souls, had perished of monoxide poisoning.

Explosions followed in the night. A stove here, a car there - until the crack of morning, when all the city's gas stations went up in flames. A dozens had perished in the night; in the subsequent fires that spread from these, the toll rose to thousands by midday. Trampling each other as they tried to flee, hundreds were incinerated mere feet away from safety.

Though no nearby explosions had occurred, another fire broke out by the late morning. The city library, with all its books and preserved manuscripts and troves of scholarship, slowly burned. There was no-one inside, on account of the panic that was rapidly spreading through town, and by the time twilight came, and the spreading flames were visible from the street, all within it was lost.

A state of emergency was called - the mayor's last act before he somehow disappeared - and police, augmented by outside reinforcements, patrolled every street. Conflicting orders were given; in one district, evacuations were organised, while in another, officers swore they'd been ordered to enforce a curfew. The night passed tensely.

* * *

Stuart Little was alone with the mayor now. The latter did not know where he was being held; it appeared to be a hospital room of sorts. Stuart Little had his back to him, flipping casually through television channels. He flicked through them with a bored air, until he got to the international news. Dominating the airwaves was the nascent ethnic cleansing of the Disnians in France. Subtitled footage of Prime Minister Alfredo Linguini, responsible for the expulsions, took up most of the screen [see "Remy and the Little Chef"]. Stuart Little stared intently at the television, and scowl slowly forming on his face.

'Remy…' he hissed. 'Up to your old tricks. I thought I'd seen the end of you. This time, I won't be as careless…'

He straightened up in his seat and turned to the frightened mayor.

'I had planned to be in town for a week at least, but this changes things. I guess we'll have to make do with a matinee of my finale. There's no time to waste.'

* * *

At first light, the tense and sleepless residents of the city witnessed a single point of flame - a torch - rise above City Hall. As crowds, shepherded along by nervous police, stopped to stare despite their fears, a gruesome sight ensued. The living, breathing body of the mayor was strung up on a cross that rose slowly out of the roof. After a moment's hesitation, the torch above it fell, and the cross burned. The mayor's death-agonies were drowned in the tide of screams, as the sounds of renewed explosions buffeted the city.

The explosions were minor: a few bombs in dilapidated, abandoned old buildings; a collapsing beam or two showering the nearby neighbourhood in dust. Nobody died from these bombs; as a matter of fact, nobody was meant to. Their aim was to tip this frightened populace, high-strung and flinching after a day and night of terrors, over the edge. A panic soon formed; a stampede followed. Residents from one district ran one way, headlong into the fleeing denizens from another. Parents trampled children, children trampled each other; cars ran over pedestrians until the glut of bodies stopped them in their tracks. Hundreds of bodies littered every street, thousands clogged the highways. Of those that did manage to flee the city, few families had not lost a loved one in the panic. It was a deathtrap.

By the time the mayor burned, Stuart Little was long gone. He drove his little red car along the highway for miles and miles, never stopping, never slowing down. Alas, there was one flaw in his plan: after a hundred miles, a short bit before his destination, he ran out of gas.

Stuart Little trudged on foot for an hour, steadily losing hope that he'd be able to catch his flight. Luckily for him, he chanced upon a bus station just as the bus was passing by.

'The airport?' asked the elderly driver.

'That's right,' replied Stuart Little.

'I'll drop ya right off, buddy - shouldn't be more than an hour till we get there. Where ya flying to?'

'Montreuil-sur-Mer, France.'

The rest of the journey passed in silence. There were three other passengers aboard, two of which had the same destination. After forty-five minutes, the bus arrived at the airport and the doors opened.

Stuart Little went on his way, without thanking the bus driver.


	2. The Best-Laid Plans

The Best-Laid Plans

by Vladicoff

Professor Ratigan listened to the pleasant symphony, the notes of which wafted up to his delicate ears from the cellars below. Lilting wails, staccato flogs, the chorus of screams that occasionally harmonised, the crescendo and decrescendo of the Machine. It was all so beautiful. London, in all its haunted glory, sprawled before his tower-top window, chimney stacks belching forth their vapours and lamp-lights twinkling through the fog. The Professor was at peace.

His moment of placid contemplation was fouly interrupted by a knock at his door.

'It had better be good - for your sake,' he shot back, not leaving his armchair by the fire. The door creaked open, then shut, and hesitant, pattering steps made their way to him.

'Radio reports, m'Laird.'

'If this is another memo on that beastly Remy, I'll be drinking wine from your skull come elevensies,' snarled Ratigan. 'I've no interest in the wreckage that damned frog is wreaking in Paris.'

'Not about Paris, Laird. Seems Remy's crossed the pond overnight.'

'Explain.'

'Seems 'e's made 'is way t' Amerika, laird Rat'gan. I beseech the professor, read this…'

Lloyd McAngus passed along the memo, which Ratigan pondered over before leaping to his feet.

'You fools, you idiots! This is not Remy! There is only one rodent who could have done this. I know his modus operandi - I know it very well…'

'My laird?'

'This cannot be the work of other than Stuart fucking Little. The buggering sod's gone out of hiding - he's broken the oath. He'll doom us all.'

'Prof'sor Ratigan - what do ye mean?'

'If I know that mouse - and I do - this little incident won't be the last. The question at hand is if he'll decide to stay in Amerika, or bring his rampage across the Atlantic and pay his old friends a visit. If there's even a small chance of the latter, then he must be stopped, at all costs.'

'But Sir, I thought ye liked this sorto thing. Mayhem an' murder, chaos an' killin'. Why do ye want to stop the sodding bastard? Just a moment ago ye said ye's was fine with what the frenchie Remy was up to.'

'Genocide is one thing, dear McAngus. Disrupting the careful balance-of-power we've worked so hard to build in Europe is quite another. I will not have the war reignited. Fetch me my carriage, I've a visit to make to Baker's Street.'

'Ye canny mean…'

'I do indeed.'

'But sirrah-'

'Fetch the carriage, or I'll burn you at a cross like this poor mayor here. Chop, chop!'

* * *

The fog was heavy and thickly-set by the time the mouse-carriage had wound its way to 221 B Baker's Street, current residence of the wondrous Basil, the great Mouse detective. (He had moved there from his previous home a little ways down the street, after his landlord - a certain S Holmes of 124 B Baker's Street - had thrown him out, due to the former's stealing of the latter's supply of cocaine).

'Basil, my dearest friend…' drawled Ratigan sarcastically at the peephole.

'Speak your business, Rat-igan,' spat Basil of Baker's Street. The Professor wrinkled his nose at his interlocutor's insinuations.

'I'm passing a note under the door, jolly boy. No funny business, I can assure you.'

Some moments passed tensely. There was the the sound of a firearm being put away.

'You can't be serious, Professor,' ventured the detective.

'Oh I am serious, dead serious.'

After another moments pause, Basil spoke: 'This is serious.'

'Yes, quite serious. Now will you be a dearest doll and let me in?' asked Ratigan, with the toothiest grin ever seen by rodent-kind. A series of locks were undone, each clanking louder than the last, and the door to the small but cosy apartment swung open.

'Just you, not your butler.'

'Oh very, very well. McAngus, here's a tuppence, go pay an orphan to punch themselves or something.'

'Aye aye, my laird.'

The room was cosy but cluttered. Basil contained his irritation as Ratigan sat himself on the armchair, and stoked the fire before sitting in the spindly guest-chair opposite his rival. The heaps of papers and newspapers and biscuit-crumbs were shoved aside, leaving room for the memo and some sheets of fresh stationary. Mrs Judson, whose shriek of horror at seeing the unexpected guest was pre-emptively shushed by the great detective, circled the table suspiciously, laying down fresh biscuits and serving brandy.

'The housekeeper,' suggested Ratigan 'Won't be sticking around much longer, I hope?'

'Well I never!' spoke up Mrs Judson, the usually patient eyes lighting up with a rarely-seen fire. 'You're not master in this house, no-how, you, you... you pool of bilge! I swear, by all the-'

'Do as he says, Mrs Judson,' said Basil, not looking at either of them. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

'I don't know what business you've gotten yourself into, Mr Basil, but I pray you're not making no mistake. Good night Mr Basil, professor.' And she was off.

For a while, neither spoke. The room was tense.

'This is serious,' spoke Basil, breaking the silence.

'I'm aware,' said Ratigan.

'Stuart fucking Little…' said Basil.

'Indeed,' rejoined Ratigan. 'Now tell, O great rodent detective - what will his next moves be?'

'So that's while you're here; I figured as much. Let me think…' and at that, Basil gathered about himself all his wits and spare sheets of paper, and started jotting things down in his odiously indecipherable scrawl. He got up and paced over to the receiver, telephoning his contacts at the shipyards and radio stations - comparing their reports to both his ever-expanding notes and the memo on the latest tragedy to befall the other side of the Atlantic.

'And you can vouch for the accuracy of this report?' he asked Professor Ratigan, pausing in mid-dial, the receiver in his other hand.

'Indubitably,' the latter responded. 'My servants know the price of mistakes. Felicia, you know.'

'Why yes, I do suppose I'm quite aware of her,' said Detective Basil, casting a disdainful look at his interlocutor, who met it with a broad smile.

Basil finished his calls, sat back down, and downed half a brandy-glass before immersing himself in his scribbling. After another quarter-hour of writing and pondering, he abruptly stood up - much to the surprise of Ratigan, who had been entertaining himself by stacking up crumbs of biscuit into elaborate shapes.

'The timing of the start of his rampage seems to have been random,' began the detective. 'However, the same cannot be said about its abrupt conclusion - not even twenty-four hours from the first killing to the final spectacle. That's not like him. Do you remember Dresden?'

'How could I forget that charnel house. I can still smell the flesh roasting…'

'That city took days to die. Stuart Little's always been erratic, but it's not like him to start as if embarking on another masterpiece, only to rush the denouement so abruptly. And the death count seems quite low by his standards, wouldn't you agree, professor?'

'Yes indeed, dearest Basil. Does this mean, then,' he ventured a hopeful tone. 'That this might not be the work of the infernal white mouse?'

'Alas, no. You know as well as I his techniques. There's no-one as efficient as him, or as particular in his cruelty. No, this killing began the way he had intended - but something caused him to change his plans very suddenly, on that exact day. Since no new developments have arisen in the second Yankee civil war, I can only conclude that the change was triggered by news of Remy's antics reaching him.'

'Which means…' gulped Professor Ratigan, fearing the worst.

'Which means he is on his way to France as we speak. But!' he raised his voice at Ratigan's look of despair. 'It hasn't been leaked to the press yet, but Amerika has cut off all air traffic to France. Displaying their usual grasp of geography, this ban has been accidentally extended to all of Europe.'

'This is disastrous,' exclaimed Ratigan. 'The Franco-Yank alliance was a cornerstone of the power-balance we built after the last rodent war. If it falls apart, well - well everything we've worked so hard for might shatter around us.'

'Have trust in Remy, professor. He may be a butcher, and the youngest amongst us, but he's no fool; we can assume that he's already set in motion plans to rectify our restored Concert of Europe. Although…' he trailed off. 'Any plans Remy might set in motion would certainly necessitate weakening his position, at least in the short term. He'll be vulnerable.'

'But how, if I may return to the threat at hand - how is Stuart Little to arrive, if the skies are denied him, and this demon presumably has not yet sprouted wings?'

'I was hoping you'd ask that - by boat. You see, the shipping lobby managed to have sea-borne traffic exempted from any embargo. And my sources inform me the fastest ships leaving from that area of Amerika are cruise vessels, and that the only France-bound ships to leave that morning are destined for Calais. That gives us…'

'A week, at most, to prepare ourselves,' concluded Ratigan.

'Precisely.'

'Then we'd best get moving, dear Basil boy.'

'Dr Dawson will remain in London to keep an eye on things. In your absence, some rodent even less scrupulous than you might attempt a power-grab and terrorise the town.'

'I'll be leaving Fidget and some of the less competent underlings behind. The rest of my followers, however, shall come with us - they are at your disposal. They may not understand, but I'll assure them that this threat dwarfs any London-town rivalry. When do we depart?'

'The next available ship leaves in five hours, from Dover. Meet me there in four, and bring everything you can spare.'

Basil showed Ratigan to the door, and they paused for a moment at the doorstep. The two archnemeses looked at each other. They spoke in unison.

'Stuart Little must die.'

To be continued.


	3. THE RAT IN THE HAT

THE RAT IN THE HAT

Written by Christopher Rangel

"I don't wanna do this anymore", said Linguini.

"Shut up", said Remy.

"No, I'm serious!" said Linguini. "I don't wanna do this anymore! I don't wanna be your meat puppet!"

"Shut up", said Remy.

"No, you shut up!" said Linguini, getting out of his seat.

"I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP AND TAKE YOUR GODDAMN PILLS!" said Remy. He calmed himself down. "If you don't, you'll be forced to by the armed guards outside. Alexander Hamilton has asked for our assistance in the second Revolutionary Pornography War, and it is important that I comply in order to keep up relations between the United States and France. On top of that, I need to deliver some important information to a couple ships in our fleet before they make it to Washington D.C."

"I don't have a choice, do I?" said Linguini. "Even when I tried killing myself, your men were there to stop me."

"That's right", said Remy. "There's no way out, so you'd might as well just go with it."

Linguini groaned and took the pills. It would take a little while for their effects to kick in, so Remy took the time to consult his red magic ball, his Protajewel. He looked deep into it and saw Stuart Little riding on a cruise ship.

"You think you're so fucking clever, don't you you fucking mouse", said Remy. He laughed. "You cheeky bastard, taking a Disney Cruise ship to France!" He tapped the Protajewel and the scene changed to a scene of B%&%&*^$%^$&%^^&*(&^*(&^&%$%^%&*^*&(&^%&$*^&^*^&(*^&n. "What the fuck?" asked Remy. "Why is this view being restricted? What are you playing at, Godchris?"

"ME THINK PILL TAKE EFFECT!" say Linguini.

"Good, good", said Remy. "Allow me to jump onto your head."

"OK", SAY Linguini. "UM, BEFORE ME TALK 2 FRENCH FLEET, MAYBE ME HAVE FUN WITH LITTLE CHEF FURST?"

"Yes, Linguini, we can have some fun with your Little Chef first", said remy.

"YAAAAY!" SAY Linguini and Remy hop on his head and he put on chef hat and Remy grab Linguini hair like in MOVIE. Linguini pull he pants down and take out pee-pee.

"OOO, DO IT NICE SLOW LIKE WENDSDAY PEE PEE PLAY!" say Linguini.

"Yes, nice and slow", said Remy.

"OH, IT FEEL GOOD!" say Linguini as he slow pull on chicken with hand and love. "OOO, CAREFUL RATMAN, YOU TUG PUBES A LITTLE TOO HARD!"

"Sorry, Linguini", said Remy. "I'll try harder not to tug on your pubes."

"YAY, THANKS!" say Linguini. "OOO, NOT SURE WHAT BETTER, ME HANDS OR YOU ON HAIR. IT GET FUN WHEN PRECUM HAPPEN THOUGH. OOO, ALL SLISHY SLOSHY, SLISHY SLOSHY!"

"Are you almost finished?" asked Remy.

"OOO, I GET SO HOT WHEN YOU ASK DAT QUESTION. OH! OH! OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" he cum big splooge that get all over room and then he slump over, unconscious.

"Finally", said Remy. He controlled Linguini to walk over to his command center and picked up the radio.

"This is a command for ships 42 and 69", Remy said through Linguini's voice. "I repeat, this is a command for ships 42 and 69. Ships 42 and 69 only. Your route should intersect with a Disney Cruise ship. I want you to board that ship and douse every deck with mouse poison. If any Disnians get in the way, just kill them. They're only fucking Disnians, after all."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir", said one of the captains. "Why?"

"Stuart Little", said Remy.

There was silence for a few seconds, then an obedient "Yes sir."

Remy put down the radio and hopped out from under Linguini's hat.

"DID IT GO GUD?" ask Linguini.

"Yes", said Remy. "It went very good."

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Stuart Little did Notre-Dame

I HATE STUART LITTLE IV:

Stuart Little did Notre-Dame

by Vladicoff

* * *

Coast of Bretagne.

A tense silence, punctuated only by the lapping waves and the rumbles of distant thunder.

'Commence le boarding!' the command rang out.

With military precision (despite being French), the armed complement of the 42nd and 69th patrol ships of the République's navy boarded the gently-drifting Disney cruiser. Streams of men in bulletproof armour clambered over the sides of the vessel - automatic weaponry at the ready, bayonets glinting in the faint dawnlight.

Not a shot rang out in response. The entire top deck was empty; even the helm was abandoned. There were no living souls below-deck either, which is not to say the cabins were empty: on the contrary, they were chock-full. Fully hundreds of cadavers, most still in their hawaiian shirts and cargo jorts, filled each compartment and sleeping-cot. Some were quite fresh, others in an advanced state of decomposition. Near-all had bite marks, and some had been nibbled down to the bone.

'Zer is no sign of le mouse, mon Captain,' said Francois.

'Mouse or no mouse, zis house you must douse,' replied the captain, also named Francois, gesturing to the cylinders of rodent-poison behind him. 'Ee could be hiding anywhere, hon hon.'

As the de-mousing was undertaken, Captain Francois made his way to the cruise ship's quartermaster's lodgings, to have a look at the ship's log. The cabin was in perfect order, all items neatly packed and sorted, all furniture precisely where it ought be. The only blemish on the otherwise stellar living quarters was the streak of blood and brain matter splattered across the wall, emanating - presumably - from the still-warm body of the quartermaster himself, in whose lap lay a pistol. The suicide had evidently transpired mere minutes before the French boarding.

In front of him, on the desk, was the ship's log, which had miraculously avoided any specks of gore from the unfortunate quartermaster's untimely end. Captain Francois dumped the defunct officer out of his armchair and sat down to read.

The last week of entries confirmed the Frenchman's worst fears. In the night passengers had gone to bed only never to awaken. At first these mysterious passings had all occurred in the third-class cabins; these areas were promptly boarded up, the inhabitants within left to starve. After a day and night of respite, disappearances began to be reported amongst the second-class passengers, and soon the affliction spread and mounted in intensity. Deaths were piling up by day now.

The quartermaster was the last soul remaining, and had been for nearly two days. He had speculated, on the last page of the log, that his survival was due to something too terrible to contemplate: that whatever had come on board, had left for the mainland. The quartermaster's suicide had been motivated by this chilling conclusions.

'Ouat are your le orders?' asked Louis Bernard.

'Notify le Premier Linguini immédiatement. Stuart Little has slipped through our fingers.'

* * *

Paris, Ile de la Cité.

'Aight, m'Laird. Things 'ave been done as the rat bastard - beggin' yer pardon, Detective - as the mouse bastard ordered,' reported McAngus to the two rodent chiefs, gathered about a detailed sketch map of the City of Lights.

Their command centre was a cramped alcove in the highest point of the cathedral spire of Notre Dame de Paris, that monument to Gothic architecture and height of mediaeval culture. In a rare moment of comradery between the two erstwhile foes, both Basil and Ratigan held the old cathedral in highest esteem, and discovered that each had begun his love of art with his first visit to Paris because of it.

'Good,' replied Detective Basil. 'Now, we have barely a day to go before the reckoning. The first cruiser to arrive in Calais should be docking tonight, meaning - given the reduced nighttime traffic now that the Disnians of Rouen and Arras have been so… roughly disposed of - that Stuart Little should arrive here by daybreak at the earliest. That should be enough, God willing.'

'Though of course,' rejoined Ratigan. 'It is possible he took a different cruise, and is arriving later.'

'That is a distinct possibility. However, given the extra time such a contingency affords us, I'd consider it an overall positive development.'

McAngus, who had been standing awkwardly near the door to the garret, piped up.

'Ought we not inform the frenchie? I thought we was 'ere to stop 'im being murdered by that Stuart sod.'

'As a matter of fact,' the Professor turned to Basil, his eyebrow crooked curiously. 'I was wondering the same thing, Basil-dear. I had expected that at some point we would give him word of the existential threat coming his way.'

'My reasons for neglecting to inform him are twofold. First, unlike the rest of you, I have little appetite for innocent blood being spilled. Remy has been known to… overreact, to put things mildly. For evidence, note the ongoing genocide. Second, what could he do if he knew? What little of the French army is in fighting shape has been sent to Amerika, and the navy can't very well develop to fight on land - being ships, not amphibians. Consequently, I believe it's a risk we have to take. Either we stop Stuart Little ourselves before anyone's the wiser, or our struggle will alert Remy and his ire and he'll finish what we started. Pray it doesn't come to that.'

It was then that something thumped against the spire. After a flutter of wings, the incoming pigeon managed to find purchase and stuck its head through a window.

'Ourgent réport pour Monsieur Bazil,' she said.

Basil of Baker Street grew pale. He motioned for her to continue.

'Zer 'as been no sighting of Stuart Little at ze port of Calais. 'Owever, word on ze dock is zat les sailors de la coast guard 'ad found an abandoned cruise-ship off le coast of Bretagne in ze early morning hours. Zat is all. One of ze rodents at ze customs 'ouse paid me to deliver zis message, and to tell you zat zey are on zer way to Paris. Au revoir.'

She flew off.

Professor Ratigan looked looked confused at first, before understanding creeped over him and he turned from the window to Basil with more fear in his eyes than he had had in years. Detective Basil did not take his eyes off the wall in front of him, as sweat began to bead.

'He's here already. That mouse jumped ship hours ago and has been making his way all day. Blast it, fuck it all to Hell!' he pounded his fists on the table. 'Outwitted. Blast it.'

'Calm yourself, dearest Basil,' Ratigan said, attempting to sound soothing despite his spiking heartbeat. 'We need you at your most serene. Face it, detective, you're no good in a fisticuff - what we need here, presently, is your mind. The only mind that's ever thwarted my own genius intellect. Stay calm! Think!'

Basil took a few steadying breaths. He turned to the map again.

'I was hoping we could have fortified each of the arrondissements by the time he arrived; we've only been able to dig into and lay explosives in the historical district and the Latin Quarter. Alas, it will have to do. McAngus!'

'Aye, detective? What can old Lloy do fer ye?'

'Leave the cathedral and take all but a skeleton crew to guard it. I want a thorough sweep of every city block that isn't yet dug into. Tell everyone of us you find to head to Ile de la Cité and the Latin Quarter and prepare. At the first sign of Stuart Little, let us know.'

'Be off now,' added the Professor. 'We've not a moment to waste.'

The rodent adjutant saluted and left.

* * *

'Oy, y'smell summat burning?'

Mia the Mouse looked over, a little annoyed at this interruption. It was her first time out of the country - first time outside of the East End of London-town, in fact - and she could not stop staring at the stained-glass windows towering above her, bathing her with their multitudinous hues. Sighing, she went over to investigate.

'Come to think of it, I do…' she mused, her nose catching a whiff of woodsmoke above the scent of incense. The smell mounted in intensity.

She heard a gasp, coming from where her comrade - the one who had called her over - had been standing just a moment before.

'You all right there, mate?'

She peered around. There was scaffolding all along this side of the building - evidently some sort of restoration work was being done on the old stones - making it a veritable maze. She called out to him again. A muffled squeak in response showed her the way. The closer she came to where the squeaks emanated, the stronger the smell of burning wood became.

Mia, after a few minutes of search, came upon her friend. He was bound and gagged, tied up with dirty rags. Between her and him was low but wide wall of flame, slowly growing in his direction. She darted towards him, attempting to find a gap in the fire, but her efforts were in vain. His muffled shouts grew hoarser, and he seemed to be desperately trying to shake off an odd makeshift item strapped to his chest. A faint boom was heard from somewhere behind the high altar, and the smell of fire increased.

She knew what she had to do. Tearing her eyes away from her friend, she turned and ran with all her speed, shouting for anyone within earshot to go on the alert. As she sped up the cathedral walls towards the central spire, she could feel some sort of presence behind her, following her at a distance. From where her friend had been bound, she heard another explosion. The flames were growing faster now, engulfing the scaffolding and spreading along walls. The heat rose.

'Professor! Professor Rat'gan! Detective!' Mia shouted as she entered the garret. The two leaders paused and looked at her in alarm.

'What is it, you?' asked Basil, his map half-rolled up.

'Don't tell me…' said Ratigan.

'He's 'ere! He's setting the place ablaze!' she paused to catch her breath. 'I think he followed me 'ere. We can't leave what way I came.'

'We're not going to leave,' said Ratigan firmly. Basil looked at him questioningly.

'Grab your gun, Basil-boy,' he continued, drawing his rapier. 'Do you have any weapons, dear?'

'None, m'Lord. Must've dropped it in me panic,' answered Mia apologetically.

'Ah well, at least you can be useful as bait, I suppose. Come now!' his voice turned to a whisper. 'Out the window. If he's been following you, he'll come here, and we can catch him when he arrives. Hasten quickly now!'

They did as he said, Mia peeking an eye through the window into the alcove, the other two lying in wait behind her, weapons drawn. All the while, the smell of fire kept growing, and growing.

Several loud creaks and the spluttering of sparks, followed by a hollow crash and renewed roar of flame, marked the collapse of the oaken roof to the east of the spire, above where the altar had once stood. Both Ratigan and Basil cursed under their breath.

'Can you see him yet?' said Basil.

'No,' said Mia.

'What's taking him so long…' said Ratigan.

'Imagine thinking I'd fall for that,' said Stuart Little.

The erstwhile ambushers recoiled in surprise. Stuart Little gave a malicious grin. The chase was on. This was no cut-and-dry race; pursued and pursuer were blurred. As Stuart Little, knife clenched between his teeth, galloped after them, they desperately tried to get the drop on him. They attempted to catch him without being caught themselves, but to no avail; the white mouse was far nimbler than they, and only their numbers kept them from being overpowered.

The chase raced up and down the towering point, and back up again, as plumes of smoke and tongues of flame wrapped themselves around the spire's base. With a deafening rumble, made all the more odious by the crackingly of wood and stone, the spire's fundament tore asunder and it collapsed into the burning wreckage of the cathedral. The four rodents leapt for their lives, tossing themselves from the crumbling spire and landing on what remained of the cathedral roof.

Ratigan was the first to rise, stumbling, back to his feet. He had lost his sword in the confusion. He helped Basil, who had fallen close by and still clutched his gun tightly against his chest, to stand. Mia had landed a bit to their right.

Stuart Little, meanwhile - blade firmly in hand - had landed on a little peninsula of roof, surrounded on three sides by the open fires and smoke where the spire had once stood.

'I've g-got you cornered, fiend,' said Basil shakily. Taking a steadying breath, he aimed his firearm straight at Stuart Little's heart. Summoning his courage, he shouted: 'Time to end this!'

Just as he pulled the trigger, the oak beneath Stuart Little cracked and gave way, surrounding the other mice in a cloud of smoke and flame. Basil's shot could be barely heard above the crack and crumble.

'Did you get him, Basil?' Ratigan whispered hoarsely, huddling closer to his archnemesis and peering into the smoke.

Mia looked around as well. She nervously took a step back, but stopped in her tracks as she bumped into something soft and evil behind her. As the smoke began to clear, a terrified Mia turned to look at the presence behind her, and saw its malicious grin.

'Omae wa mou shindeiru,' said Stuart Little.

'But I-I don't speak French…' squeaked Mia. Suddenly her voice stopped short, as Stuart Little's blade pierced her sternum. The white mouse tossed her aside to bleed out, and advanced menacingly. Basil retreated a few steps, attempting to hurriedly reload his gun, but it was of no use: Stuart Little's knife flew through the air and tore the gun in two, embedding itself in Basil's shoulder. Stuart Little looked from Ratigan to Basil, and uttered a single word:

'Run.'

They ran. The roof was collapsing faster now; their only hope of escaping the inferno below lay in reaching the towers above the western entrance, where the stone yet stood firm. They'd nearly reached the southern tower when Basil slipped on the blood dripping down from his wound and fell flat on his face. Ratigan, who was slightly ahead of his fellow Londoner, turned and tried to help him up.

Before Basil of Baker Street could fully rise to his feet, Stuart Little was upon him. He took a wide swipe at the detective's face, tearing off a chunk of flesh and sending him tumbling down through the collapsing roof. Ratigan recoiled in horror; thinking fast, he leapt between the columns of the southern tower and hid behind one. Hopefully the smell of smoke and burning stone would befuddle his pursuer's notoriously keen sense of smell.

Professor Ratigan crept from column to column, making his way to the stairwell, heaving ragged breaths. Just a little ways more to go…

'You should've run.'

Stuart Little appeared from behind a column, deftly stepping between Ratigan and the stairway entrance. He had a hungry look in his beady eyes. Blood stained his white fur, and dripped steadily off his paws. He advanced slowly, eyes fixed on the professor, mouth salivating.

Stuart Little was almost upon him when he fell to the floor and writhed in pain. On top of him was mass of wizened grey fur and gnashing teeth.

'McAngus!' shouted Ratigan in disbelief.

'No time t' lose, m'Laird!' rejoined the old mouse. 'The stairs're nearly done fer!'

Ratigan hesitated for a moment longer, then took off, sprinting past the melee to the entranceway. He looked back over his shoulder one more time before rushing down the stairs. The scene he saw was not pleasant: McAngus had lost control and was pinned to the ground, spurts of blood gushing out from a gaping hole in his chest. Stuart Little, now missing an ear, was savaging his opponent mercilessly, tearing off flesh with his teeth and swallowing it raw.

Ratigan held back tears as he ran, galloping down the stairs on all fours. He was determined to not let his old servant's sacrifice be in vain. As the steps began to crumble and give way, he leapt onto the interior facade of the church and sprinted down along the walls. The heat was nearly unbearable, as was the sight of the ancient cathedral's spire laying in ruin amidst the burning pews.

The smell of burning rodent pervaded the air as he reached the marble floor; corpses in various stages of roast littered the ground. One in particular was still mostly intact, its green jacket having just recently been caught ablaze.

'B-Basil…' choked out Ratigan.

There was nothing he could do; within moments a cascade of masonry buried his enemy-turned-friend's body, and nearly crushed him as well in the process. Coughing through the ash and smoke, he gathered his strength for one last exertion and pushed his way through the flames and charring wood, slipping between a gap in the stonework to the left of the collapsed gateway.

Ratigan did not stop until he had cleared the plaza, the sound of burns and screams still echoing in his ears. He collapsed onto the ground. He was safe.

'Stuart Little really is back, then,' said a familiar voice from above him.

He looked up, his eyes still hazy from the smoke and dust. Towering above him was Prime Minister Linguini, with Remy perched on his shoulder.

'Should have left this to the experts, professor.'

* * *

To be continued.


	5. Paris Inferno

I HATE STUART LITTLE V:

Paris Inferno

Written by Vladicoff

* * *

Linguini was armed to the teeth. Two sabres were strapped to his hips, bandoliers crossed his chest, and a portable Maxim-gun was cradled awkwardly in arms. He looked apprehensive. He wore no hat, neither chef's nor premier's; Remy evidently felt no need to disguise his role. Behind him was a squadron of the Garde Nationale and a Renault tank. Additional squadrons lined up around the cathedral.

Taking a miniature megaphone in his paws, Remy shouted up to the burning building.

'Surrender, Stuart Little! You are surrounded. These are not simple English mice you are dealing with anymore, but the might of France. Come down!'

There was silence, aside from the still-roaring flames. Minutes passed. Remy repeated his warning as the French troops stepped closer, tightening the blockade. Engineers set to work placing dynamite around the church's perimeter, tears gently streaming down their otherwise stoic faces as they prepared to demolish this icon of national pride. A cloud of smoke and ash burst from a stained-glass window, engulfing a line of soldiers as sudden rifle fire pierced through the air.

As the smoke cleared - rapidly drifting away in the face of a gust of cold wind from the river Seine - the cause of the tumult was revealed: Stuart Little had taken possession of a lieutenant, piloting him as Remy did Linguini and spraying the rest of the unit with bullets.

The firefight began. The French soldiers backed away, firing as they did; a stray shot set off the dynamite, sending a cascade of masonry flying across the square. Linguini fired, filling the lieutenant with lead - but Stuart Little merely darted out of harm's reach, taking over another flesh-puppet and continuing the fight.

Three, four, a dozen, a score - the soldiery fell, bullet-riddled. The fires of Notre Dame spread. Between the flames and the cyclopean blocks of stone that had cracked and tumbled under fire, dynamite, and tank-shot, the square was cut off: an arena ringed by an impenetrable, rocky inferno. The skies darkened with soot and smoke. All Ratigan could do was watch the fighting unfold.

The square was strewn with corpses as Stuart Little took possession of the last French footsoldier. Linguini aimed carefully. His machine gun was almost out of bullets. Stuart Little's mount ran towards his adversary. Linguini held his fire, finger on the trigger, awaiting the right moment. As the charging man came within ten paces of the prime minister, the latter let loose: a final burst of gunfire flew forth, tearing a gaping hole in the soldier's chest.

But Stuart Little was unharmed. He had leapt off his steed's head at the last moment, gliding with the aid of the man's beret over Remy's head and into the open cockpit of the Renault tank. As the soldier collapsed, torso torn asunder and face contorted in agony, Stuart Little rammed the tank into a building abutting the square, bulldozing a hole through it and disappearing into the smoke.

'That mouse bastard. Linguini, swords out! To arms! After him!' roared Remy, leading Linguini into a pell-mell run.

The sounds of fighting grew gradually distant as the adversaries fought their way through the streets of Paris. A sort of spectral calm came upon the square, framed by the monotonous roaring of the flames and punctuated by groans of the dying. Professor Ratigan stumbled to his feet, eyes dull as his adrenaline dissipated and the enormity of events set in. Was Paris to be a new Dresden? Why had Stuart Little chosen now to end his exile and unleash his evil? And why did Ratigan's heart pang so at the loss of his enemy, Basil? The professor gave himself over to morose thoughts.

It was at this point that a gust of air from above blew the tatters of his coat, as - with a soft thump - a plump mass landed behind him. He turned and - confused more than surprised - saw Dr Dawson, gently rubbing his rear as an exhausted Fidget muttered apologies for the rough landing.

'What?' asked Ratigan flatly, unable to muster much emotion.

'I must speak with Basil at once, before he fights Stuart Little. Where can I find him?' asked Dawson, betraying a slight hint of fear.

Ratigan turned away and sighed, lifting a hand up and gesturing towards the burning cathedral wreckage.

'Y...you don't mean…'

Still facing away, Ratigan nodded.

'Fuck!' shouted the generally softspoken doctor. 'The fool, the genius fool, why didn't he tell me where he was going! I had to rough up a dozen of your minions - no fatalities, professor - to find out.' His voice cracked. 'I could have gotten here earlier… if I had only gotten here earlier…'

He broke down in sobs. Ratigan (what a day full of firsts!) reached over and placed an arm gingerly around the old doctor, sharing silently in his grief. After some minutes he spoke up:

'There was nothing you could have done, Dawson-dear - Stuart Little was beyond any of us. One extra fighting man would have made no difference…'

'That's where you're wrong, Ratigan,' said Dr Dawson softly, through a tight throat. He reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and drew out a small, plain wooden box. 'I could have given him this.'

At Ratigan's inquisitive eye, he continued:

'A few weeks ago, the good detective had asked me to look into the contents of this box. He had received it in a will from an old major, an acquaintance from the last rodent war. Neither the major nor Basil could make heads nor tails of it, and so he passed it along to me - knowing that, at least when pertains to lore esoteric, I could be of much use.'

'Well, what is it?' asked Ratigan.

'I know not what it is, but I know what it can do. And what it can do, is grant one a strength and power many times beyond one's normal ken. I'd venture so far as to call it magical.' A pause. 'Oh, I wish he'd told me why he'd left so suddenly, I would've told him about what I'd discovered!'

'You mean, you knew? And you kept this knowledge from Basil - this life-saving knowledge?'

'I…' Dawson looked down at his feet sheepishly. 'I wanted to surprise him for his birthday. I knew how miffed he was about it being on a Monday this year… I wanted to cheer him up with this.' He sniffled. 'Perhaps if he had taken it with him, or if I'd managed to catch up with him before the battle, he would have had the strength needed to face this demon and triumph. But now my chance is lost…'

Dawson slumped to the floor, deflated. Ratigan was about to join him, when a thought occurred.

'Hold it, Doctor,' he said, holding up a hand. 'Perhaps not all is lost. Give it to me.'

'The box?'

'Yes, the box - give it to me, and show me how to use what's within. I'll avenge your friend, and send Stuart Little back to Hell where he belongs.'

Dawson's eyes flashed with a clash of hope and mistrust. Slowly he nodded his head, and held the box out, opening it as he did so.

* * *

FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE

Linguini clambered out of the sewer manhole, sludge, slime, and blood on his hands, in hot pursuit of the white mouse. It was mere seconds before Stuart Little had found himself a new host, a young blind man whose cane was now being brandished as a garrotte. Linguini must have slain a hundred of Stuart Little's flesh-puppets, but that rodent devil had simply moved along to the next proxy. Linguini still held both sabres in hand, but a thousand knicks, bites, scratches, and kicks were starting to take their toll on his body.

Remy quickly pressed the button of his tiny remote-controller once again, and a second later the apartment buildings at either end of the boulevard caved in and collapsed in flames, the screams of their occupants drowned by the crackle of wood and stone. This was the sixth time he had attempted to box Stuart Little in; every time, the mouse had managed to slip away. It was no matter. He would do it a seventh time, and an eighth, if need be. He was burning down all of Paris in his attempt to contain his foe.

The two mice and their men approached each other warily. The men stared forward with glazed eyes, puppets to their rodent masters. Remy looked on with determination and hate; Stuart Little, with bloodlust and amusement.

'Time to finish what we started, all those years ago,' hissed Remy.

'Gladly,' said Stuart Little, as cane and sabre met in the air, the ring of metal on metal barely audible.

Garrotte and sword clanged and clanged, each swing more savage and primal than the last. A sabre broke in half; the hilt was thrust into the blind man's guts. The other sabre was knocked to the floor, at the price of several fingers. The cane clattered to the ground as the two proxies wrestled amid their rapidly pooling blood. Above them the fires of Paris spread higher and higher, plumes of smoke blotting out even the moon. The scene was of Hell.

The rodents wrestled also, struggling to maintain control over their hosts while punching, kicking, biting, tearing at each other. Rat and mouse fought more savagely, clumps of fur and loose fangs knocked asunder. The blind man, bleeding out, thrust his fingerless hand into Linguini's throat, tearing open a hole and releasing a flood of blood. Both men died in each other's arms, as the rodents continued their struggle without a second's thought wasted on regret or mourning.

Stuart Little pinned Remy to the ground and took a bite. He ripped the rat's jaw clean off, savouring the blood and crunching bone.

'I've won, little chef,' he taunted as he swallowed his meal. He laughed as Remy gurgled, starting to choke on his own blood. His laugh stopped abruptly as he noticed a glint in Remy's eye, a glint of triumph.

Just then, Remy's body convulsed as he vomited, spraying bile and acid directly onto Stuart Little's face. The mouse's eyes sizzled as they burned, his paws clawing at them in desperation as sight left him.

Remy flipped Stuart Little off one last time, before heaving his last breath. He lay motionless.

Stuart Little rose to his feet. He was shaken, but not unsteady. He grasped a nearby splinter of wood and held it as a cane.

'Fuck you, scum,' he spoke, his voice hoarse and full of malice. 'Couldn't even die with dignity. No matter. I did what I came here to do. Now I can continue my work in peace… I will take my time with this Paris of yours.'

He turned his head suddenly, his remaining ear perked up. A split-second later, he just barely dodged a pebble thrown right at him, as a familiar figure leapt to the ground in front of him, teeth gnashing.

'You'll pay for what you've done, Stuart Little,' hissed Ratigan. He was beefier than he had been, his eyes red, his claws longer and more sharp. Around his finger was a gently flowing band of some odd material, which glowed chartreuse. This ring pulsated some strange energy into the rat professor's body, causing his muscles to grow and shrink and grow again and his fur to mat.

Stuart Little sniffed the air.

'If that is what I think it is, you'll finally be a challenge,' he said mockingly. 'Shame you don't know how to use it properly. There are only two of our kind that have ever learned - and you're looking at one of them. Prepare to die.'

The two locked in a desperate duel. Stuart Little stuck his cane in a nearby flame (for the fires had only grown fiercer and hotter as the night wore on), igniting it and brandishing it at his foe. Ratigan, buoyed by the knowledge that he was the last hope of stopping the monster, felt no pain. The two tore into each other.

The two were seemingly evenly matched. While Ratigan was quicker in his reflexes than the now-blind Stuart Little, and fortified by the mysterious ring, he was also unstable: a fiery poke into his engorged arm had burst a bicep, tossing both rodents back in a burst of explosive energy. But while every injury wore Stuart Little down bit by bit, Ratigan was unphased by his own wounds; victory for him was a matter far beyond merely life or death.

Finally, the professor was poised for victory, his adversary pinned against a burning wall. Both rodents' fur burned and melted in the heat. Ratigan reached out his hand - the one bearing the ring - and shoved it down Stuart Little's throat, determined to rip the fiend's heart out and tear his body apart.

That was a mistake.

In a last desperate gamble, taking a lesson from Remy's digestive-based counterattack, Stuart Little bit hard. His bet worked: upon being punctured by the mouse's fangs, the swollen forearm deflated and burst, and the wave of energy was enough to tear limb from rat. He scamped away from the fire and chewed with a desperate hunger as Ratigan howled in pain.

Ratigan rapidly deflated, his eyes returning to their normal hue as he felt his strength leave him and the heretofore ignored wounds assert their pain. Stuart Little, meanwhile, began to glow with power. Energy rippled through him. He grew to towering heights as what remained of his fur turned silver and his flesh purpled.

'Fool… I told you you were untrained in using the jewel. Now watch as I assume my final form-' Stuart Little gasped suddenly, coughing as new eyesockets grew out of his skull and his fangs multiplied. His body convulsed rapidly, barely containing the power within, but he stabilised and drew himself up to his full height.

'You did a good job, Ratigan. It seems I lack the strength to wield this power for long. But no matter. Even if it kills me, I will turn this city into a crater and its people to ash. Run along now, see if you can outrun the miasma and live to tell the world of how Stuart Little died and killed.' He put his hands together and began to vibrate, preparing himself for this final act. The smoke began to swirl around him, encasing him in a black vortex.

It was then that a lilting melody was heard from off in the distance, growing rapidly closer. A heavy beat reverberated. Both Ratigan and Stuart Little looked on in confusion as a figure arrived, gently stepping off a small cloud and waddling over to them.

'Hi guys I'm Biggie Cheese.'

* * *

To be continued.


End file.
